Squiggles
by Bug Ugly
Summary: the Xiaolin monks decide to raid the Wu cache of our favorite Evil Boy Genius – and find themselves meeting a side of Jack Spicer that rarely surfaces in their constant battle over Shen Gong Wu. No pairings, One Shot, gratuitous use of equations


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form own Xiaolin Showdown or the characters it contains. All are the intellectual property of Christy Hui and Cartoonnetwork/WB. I do not make any profit off of this story, and write it only for enjoyment and to pass the time. However, I do claim ownership to the writing itself, and would hope that those who read this can respect that._

_I also do not own Rudyard Kipling, or his words. I just use them for the sheer hell of it._

**Category**: _Action/Adventure/General_

**Pairings**: _N/A_

**Warning(s)**:_ It's squeaky clean_.

**Rating**: _E, for Everyone_.

**Setting**: _The Spicer home – namely, the basement located therein. This is shortly after Raimundo's 'Hey guys, guess who's evil?' jaunt, because it was silly as all get out_.

**Summary**: _Squiggle_:_ the Xiaolin monks decide to raid the Wu cache our favorite Evil Boy Genius – and find themselves meeting a side of Jack Spicer that rarely surfaces in their constant battle over Shen Gong Wu. (No pairings, One Shot, gratuitous use of equations)_

**Style**: _Third Person POV (Point of view)_

**Additional Notes**: Yes, those _**are**_real equations. I know one is for a circle, and the other for complex numbers. No, I'm not altogether clear on _exactly_ how they work – I have a basic grasp, but certainly not enough to trust with it. XD, I stole them from reading over a friend's shoulder (scary AP calculus – it petrifies me) during a particularly boring part of the day. That's not silly at all. HOWEVER, they make you feel incredibly smart while writing them. Naturally, I wanted to use them for something.

It makes me feel a smidge intelligent when I use unusual equations. Delicious and nutritious, tastes just like emc².

So. I squiggled out another quickie one shot – someone (sorry, I can't recall names this early in the morning) said something about having the rest of the apprentices see the scribbles and the smartness of el Jack-o, so _viola_ – ask, and ye shall receive.

Sorry for the sudden perspective shift at the bottom. I wasn't sure how to break it, and, honestly, I think it flows better like that. Very odd, I know.

… I find myself _far_ too amusing right now.

**Squiggles**

"_Never look backwards, or you'll fall down the stairs_." – Rudyard Kipling

The grass was cool and damp against Raimundo's hand, clinging to his palm as he shifted his position ever so slightly, gaze following as the ever-present jack-bots swerve about for another circuit. Behind him, his fellows crouched in similar states of readiness, eyes in constant motion as they surveyed the scene for threats, as unlikely as such things would be. Their breaths were tiny puffs of steam in the inadequate moonlight, rising and dissipating in the chill air of the near-morning twilight. Overhead, the eastern edge of the sky was lightening, the sun burning away the stars as it rose to its customary position in the heavens.

Despite the time, the assembled teenagers were not at all weary; each having only recently awakened, they were at full alert, ready for anything the Spicer mansion could throw at them.

Being the foremost, Raimundo was the pseudo-leader; surveying their path and making it clear for his companions. The thought of his command of the situation made his chest swell with a prideful inhalation, a cocky grin curling the corners of his mouth. Eventually, he hoped to have this sort of control _officially_, rather than just the spur of the moment.

Something lightly plucked at the edge of his shirt, drawing his attention back to the corporeal realm. Turning his head back, he was greeted with Omi's rather put-off expression, as the monk pointed toward the lone pair of jack-bots.

'_Shouldn't we go now_?' the younger apprentice mouthed, refraining from vocalizing the question.

Raimundo frowned for but a moment, disliking that Omi would wrest control from him just when he had been truly enjoying it, but knowing it was for the best. He nodded quickly, motioning for his more distant companions to join them in the front.

Clay skittered forward with a surprising stealth, dwarfing the smaller form of Kimiko beside him. They crouched down together, half-hidden behind a rather large specimen of a deciduous tree.

Raimundo took a deep breath, holding up one hand as he mouthed the countdown, "_One, two, three—_"

In seconds, the only evidence that the jack-bots had ever been there were two quietly smoldering piles of burnt and twisted metal.

Satisfied that they had not tripped some security system, Raimundo rose to his feet, barely restraining the satisfied groan at finally being able to stretch his legs. Instead, he turned about once more to face his fellow monks, grinning wickedly. "Alright, guys. You know the drill. There'll probably be droves of 'bots in there, so we're going in with guns blazing, alright? Clay, you get the door open first – Kim, I want you in the front, 'kay?" He waited for an affirmative gesture from the afore-mentioned Tohomiko, noting the bright smile that confirmed her eagerness for the assignment. "Omi and me will be right behind you. Everybody ready?" He waited long enough for the affirmative nods before turning and jogging across the spacious back lawn of the Spicer's estate, half-crouched to make himself as small a target as possible. He could hear the quick, light steps of Kimiko's sprint; Omi's rapid, staccato pace; and bringing up the rear, the lumbering galumph of Clay's easy lope. It was oddly comforting to know his friends were right at his back, cooperating with him. After the whole Wuya escapade, he hadn't really expected them to be so trusting of him again.

He wouldn't let that trust slip away again.

Maybe this whole raid was an excuse to again show them how dedicated he was to the Xiaolin side; they didn't exactly _need _any of the Wu Jack had, after all. But missions had always bonded them before, and that fragile sense of kinship needed to be cemented once more with such a task.

Raimundo flattened himself against the wall, waiting for the others to fall in line beside him. He held up one tanned hand, motioning for silence, before leaning around the corner, green eyes narrow as he scanned the premises. Quiet. Not a single hum of machinery.

Grinning at the apparent negligence in security, the Brazilian again flattened himself to the smooth stone of the mansion, glancing back to his friends. "All clear," He whispered, slipping around the other side. He was startled at the sudden brightness of the moonlight, clearly outlining his slinking form against the bare wall. Heroically fighting off the urge to duck back around the corner, the Dragon of Wind paused, taking a steadying breath. _Nobody's here to call the alarm, just keep it cool_. _ We've done this a hundred times before, right? No problem_._ No problem at all_.

Kimiko slipped up beside him, and together they headed for the 'secret' escape door to Jack's basement headquarters. He crouched down at the nearest side, watching Kimiko place herself dead center before the door, Clay standing slightly to her left.

"Ready?" He asked, barely above a whisper. The leaves rustled in a gentle breeze, as if startled by the sudden voice.

"Yeah," The Tohomiko girl grinned readily, assuming her stance.

A long pause to gather himself together and- "Go!"

Immediately, the earth wrenched the solid door aside, hurling it back several feet to land in a crumpled heap, crushing a decorative hydrangea beneath its bulk. As soon as the entryway was clear, Kimiko was down the darkened chute, flames enveloping her delicate-seeming hands. Clay sprinted behind her, his hulking presence disappearing into the shadowed doorway as well.

Rai hurried forward, Omi right on his heels, already readying himself for the invigorating, yet pointless, fight.

He hit the ramp at a run, legs gathering to spring over the first unfortunate jack-bot that got in his way.

Silence.

He hesitated, half-squatting with both arms bent defensively before his torso. No whirling blades, no chaotic 'bots flying in maddened, confused circles – just the quiet clicking of machinery and hums of blackened monitors.

"What in tarnation is going on here?" Clay muttered, straightening from his own ready stance. "It's quieter than a rattlesnake hole in the middle of winter," the cowboy scratched the narrow margin of his exposed forehead, hat slightly askew.

"Creepy," Kimiko rubbed her arms, eyeing the large, ominous generator beside her skeptically. Then, tentatively, "Maybe everybody's asleep?"

"It is pretty late," Rai conceded, rather baffled by the lack of challenge. Jack usually left at least a couple of 'bots activated, just in case of such a raid as they were committing. It wasn't like the supposed-genius to leave his Lair completely unguarded.

By unspoken agreement, the four separated, spreading to inspect the unusually tranquil basement-turned-lab. Carefully padding around each silent piece of equipment – most of them half-finished, with indefinable purposes – the young monks made short work of the immediate entryway, meeting again in the center, further bemused by the lack of results.

"Well, I guess we'll just grab the Wu and get outta here," Rai acquiesced to the obvious, heaving a disappointed sigh. "Let's get—"

Something _clacked_ from the unchecked area near the main doorway, cutting the new Xiaolin apprentice off mid-sentence.

As one, the four dropped to wary crouches, eyes trained on the subtle flicker of light. Omi scuttled forward, leading the silent charge, while Raimundo fumed behind him.

The apprentices rolled out from the shadow of a large computer screen, knees bent and arms ready to deflect the imminent attack—

That didn't come.

Each did a double take, startled at the quiet pile of deactivated jack-bots. Blank, slate-grey eyes stared back blankly, the clouded gaze of dead things. These weren't trashed 'bots; merely turned off, it seemed.

"What—" Raimundo began, only to be cut off by Clay's warning palm. The colossal blonde moved stealthily around the perimeter of the pile, clearly ready to dive aside in case of any danger. He disappeared from view. Then, with quiet incredulity:

"Spicer?"

Burning with curiosity, the remaining three joined their American companion, mouths dropping agape as they caught sight of the elusive goth.

Jack was reclining easily in a swivel chair, both lanky, jean-covered legs propped on his 'brooding' table. A pen flicked idly against an open textbook, the plastic cap wedged in one corner of his frowning mouth. Several large books were stacked beside his booted feet, haphazardly organized in a leaning tower of dubious stability. Paper littered the ground around the Spicer heir like strange snow, several more piles beside the overflowing trashcan.

The self-proclaimed genius seemed to be deeply concentrating, his eyes narrow as they flicked along the page. Completely absorbed in his work, he hadn't even noticed the apprentices' arrival.

They were being _ignored_.

Ignored by _Jack Spicer_, of all people.

Feeling both discomfited and insulted, they shifted uneasily, the lack of response from the pale teenager growing more evident as time elapsed. "Jack?" Omi queried experimentally, waving a tiny hand to get the goth's attention. "Is anyone in your house?"

Jack's expression didn't change.

Not bothering to correct the insufferably slang-deficient Dragon of Water, Clay sidled closer, reaching out a massive, tentative hand to poke the youth's skinny forearm.

The goth shifted marginally, frown deepening as he moved his arm away from the contact. "Hmm?" He asked, not bothering to look up to see what had poked at him. The pen faltered in the incessant tapping, twirling unhurriedly about to scribble down some inane set of numbers, meticulously recording the mental equation.

"Uh, well," Bailey trailed off, obviously flabbergasted. "Erm…." He looked to the others for some sort of support.

Sensing opportunity, Raimundo stepped forward to again resume control of the situation. Chest swelling in a close approximation of the pose he had often seen strutting action heroes take in the movies he had religiously watched as a child, the Brazilian placed himself directly beside Jack, schooling his expression to a mask of seriousness. "We're here for the Wu, Spicer. Hand 'em over, or this'll get messy," he folded his arms across his chest, hoping he came off as macho as he hoped he did.

Jack waved vaguely toward the far wall. "Second cabinet on the left," He muttered, before squiggling down another set of numbers. "Be careful of the springing door."

"Uh, okay," Clay grunted, turning to lumber toward the cabinet Spicer had pointed out. He tested the door, dipping back as it swung out seemingly of its own malicious will, nearly clipping his nose. Eyeing the evil door suspiciously, he moved back before the opened cubby, reaching in cautiously. Sure enough, out came the Mantis Flip Coin, winking merrily in the caustic white light from the single lit lamp. "Um, thanks, pardner," Bailey again scratched his head, but pocketed the Wu nonetheless.

"Yup," Jack sighed edgily, hunching his shoulders as if to block out the cowboy's presence. Omi and Kimiko ogled him doubtfully, before seeming to lose interest, joining the Texan as he gathered their spoils.

Rai, however, was deathly curious to see what exactly had so captivated their nemesis of the past two years. He edged closer to the table, peering right into Jack's lap.

" _r_² - 2_rr_0 cos(_θ_ – _φ_) + _r_²0 _a_² "

"Whoa," Pedrosa breathed, eyes widening slightly. He scanned the page again, eyes lowering along the odd sets of numbers and letters.

" _r_0_e__iθ_0 _r_1_e__iθ_1 _r_0_r_1e_i_(_θ_0+_θ_1) "

He blinked at the calculations, trying to dredge up what little of his last math course – Algebra – he had retained. It was like comparing Tonka toys and submarines.

Feeling a headache starting in the back of his skull, Rai averted his gaze to the pile of discarded books, scanning over the titles. '_Distributed Algorithms_' read a thick, tattered volume; '_Gödel's Proof_' said the one directly beneath it, the red cover beginning to peel at the edges with repeated use; '_The Physics of Information Technology_' chimed in a third, the author's name (_Neil Gershenfeld_) bold and dark against the pale surface; another well-worn book claimed the illustrious title of '_Electromagnetic Processes in Dispersive Media_'. The few other titles were half covered with crumpled papers and notes, the occasional letter peeking out like shy sprouts.

Moving around to Jack's other side, as to get a better view, he moved aside a few pieces of what he assumed to be failed notes. One, however, caught his eye.

Carefully plucking the compressed mass of paper from its resting place, Rai immediately began smoothing the edges out, revealing something he hadn't really expected. In boldface letters across the top, unmistakable, were the words, "_Certificate of Admission to Harvard University_". Below it, in less eye-catching darkness, it read, '_This is to certify that Jack M. Spicer, having qualified in all respects, is hereby admitted as a candidate_….'

_Waitaminute._

Raimundo paused, uncertain if he had read that college name correctly. No, there it was, all but burned into the very fiber of the paper: Harvard. Below it, the crest of the school seemed a black splotch, with the letters '_VE – RI – TAS_' place in a sort of triangle.

"You're going to _Harvard_?" Incredulous, Pedrosa did a triple take, carefully re-reading the opening paragraph. "_You_?"

"What?" Jack looked up blearily, seeming to stare straight through Rai. Then, slowly, realization began to clear his gaze, and he focused in on the apprentice, as if he had never seen him before. "How did you— when…?" He blinked rapidly, eyebrows drawing low in sudden agitation. "_What _are _you_ doing in here?" Sitting up quick enough to dislodge himself from his precarious slouch, the Harvard-accepted genius slid down the narrow gap between chair and table, landing with a solid _thunk _on his torso. Stuck in a rather awkward looking position, he wriggled to the side, legs flopping down from the tabletop.

"You do know it's illegal to go through people's mail, right?" From the floor, the goth snatched at the creased paper, missing by wide gap as Rai jerked it up out of reach, still reading. "S-stop it! That's none of your business." Spicer reared up on his knees again attempting (poorly) to filch _his_ letter away.

"Oh, man, this is _Harvard_," Raimundo shook his head wonderingly, not bothering to look down as Jack overbalanced and pitched forward to land face first on the concrete floor. "Why would Harvard want _you_?" The Brazilian again shook his head in stupefied amazement.

Jack made a wounded expression into the cold, cold floor, before levering himself up on his arms, and from there onto his feet, scowl firmly set into its customary place. "Because I'm a _genius_ – duh," Inexplicably blanching not a breath later, Spicer again went for the letter, this time snagging it away before Rai could jerk it aside. "I- I mean, I forged it." He crumpled it back into its previous state, tossing it over his shoulder to land somewhere deeper within the lab. "Yeah, I forged it. I'm evil like that."

Rai arched one eyebrow, his curiosity piqued once more. "So lemme get this straight: You forged an acceptance letter from an Ivy league school, which you won't be attending, just to throw it away immediately after?"

Jack hesitated, going back over his own logic, and finding it somewhat lacking. Then, adopting an air of confidence and his trademark sneer, "Yes. Yes I did."

"Why?"

Discomfited by the direct question, Jack hesitated, stuttering, "Erm… I, uh, well– what I do with my time is none of _your_ business, ten watt," He tried his best to look haughty, but came off more as 'worried', hands restlessly twitching. In desperate need of a subject change, he blurted, "So what brings you to this part of the woods?"

Rai didn't like the way Jack's expression darkened, turning into that malicious sneer they were so often regaled with at the beginnings of Showdowns. "Looking for Wuya's box again, because everybody wasn't feeling bad for _poor_ you?"

Raimundo's expression went murderous. "You—"

"What's goin' on here, now?" Clay ambled over to peer at the indignant Pedrosa, the larger Shen Gong Wu cradled in his thick arms. His gaze traveled between the two teenagers, face instinctively relaxing into an easy grin to ease the tense hostility he sensed.

Jack blinked up at the cowboy, "Just how many of you are in— hey!" His expression was livid as he caught sight of just what exactly the Texan was holding. "Put those back, you oaf. How'd you even know where they were?"

"Why, Spicer, you sorta told us," Clay said genially, blithely ignorant of the murder glare he was being shot with.

"Did not!" Jack snapped back. Then, uncertainly, "… Maybe?"

"You did," Clay confirmed, nodded sagaciously. "We'll just be moseying along—"

"You won't be doing that!" Jack interrupted, though Bailey continued on, unabated.

"—unless you'd like to try your luck against the four of us. Alone."

Jack deadpanned, whirling around to face his cabinet. Omi waved cheerfully, the Shroud of Shadows resting over his arms. He blinked, shocked by their brazen thievery. Surely the jack-bots would have alerted him to… oh. Right.

He had turned them off so he could work in peace.

Feeling terribly vulnerable, Jack, for once in his life, was prudent, standing by as they looted his meager store of Shen Gong Wu. It was a common enough event, recently. He could always steal them back, after all.

He plopped back into his chair wearily, propping his chin on one hand as he watched the four Xiaolin bozos make off with his own ill-gotten gains, pride smarting something terrible. It was the absolute _worst _when Omi felt the need to smile at him, waving as the monks left for the night. Pompous twerp.

Still, relieved they hadn't gotten all of the Wu (he had a few stashed around, just in case of such a raid), he activated the jack-bots, put them on defense mode (what a laugh that was), and headed up the stairs, not in the mood for leisure equations any longer.

On the way up, he thought about the four other acceptance letters lying at the bottom of the trash, under a heap of pudding cups. He had briefly considered actually going to such institutions, but ultimately discarded the idea. As interesting as having a degree would be, he couldn't exactly juggle time well been Showdowns and class work – it would be too much strain, even for him.

Honestly, his quest for world domination was _far _more interesting than any boring, stuffy, old college anyways. Sure, it was utterly terrifying, and, on many occasions, embarrassing, but he had to admit, if given the choice between becoming a productive part of society, or hunting for mystical objects of immense power, he'd have to go with the latter.

Besides, who _ever _said you needed an Ivy League diploma to rule the world? Nobody, that's who.

Still, it had been nice to have at least one of the Xiaolin losers totally incredulous. He replayed Rai's disbelieving expression again in his mind, sneering.

_Though that in itself is rather insulting._

He headed for his upstairs bedroom, wounded pride and the queasy sensation of helplessness causing him to glower hatefully at the carpeted floor. Was it really so ridiculous to think he could get into such a prestigious academy? Really. '_Genius'_ wasn't just a whimsical title, after all.

"Jackie?" Came a familiar, maternal voice from the living room, as he passed it.

The young Spicer heir stopped, grimacing. _Jackie_. Ugh, how mortifying these motherly sobriquets were. He schooled his expression into the epitome of teenage impatience, with just a dash of irritation for flavor. "Yeah?" Huffing out the word to clearly state just how very reluctant he was answering, the teen folded his arms, fingers curled around his elbows.

"Did you get those letters back from the schools?" Mrs. Spicer stood up from the couch, mouth half-curved in a hopeful smile. "Did you open them yet?"

"Uh," Jack answered, inwardly wincing. Evil was all about duplicity and such like, but there was something about lying directly to his mom that just… struck a nerve. Shoving those nauseatingly guilty feelings under, he rolled his eyes, drawling out, "No, not yet."

She looked positively crestfallen, sinking back to the couch with a world-weary sigh. "Well, I just thought they'd be here by _now_. It's been months since we applied. We did have the right address written down, right?" Anxiously, she tapped one manicured fingernail against her rouged lower lip, eyebrows lowering slightly as she strove to dredge up the required information.

"There's probably a huge waiting list," He harrumphed, leaning against he doorjamb. Briefly scanning his mind for more excuses, he added, "And the mail is so slow these days." Waving vaguely to accentuate his point.

"True, true," Mrs. Spicer nodded absently, eyes still staring off into space. "Still, you'd think they'd be so eager to hear from you. After all, your pedigree demands respect." She preened at the thought, cheering herself up with the repetitive information. "Your father is hoping for Brown; that's where he went."

"Oh boy, what _fun_. A school named after a color. Whoopee." Jack replied in a sarcastic monotone, scowl deepening.

His mother looking at him in mock-seriousness, "The wisest of all the colors, I assure you." She laughed briefly, while Jack only allowed himself a small smirk. "You know we're proud of you, Jackie. You're so smart for your age."

It was praise he had long been used to, but it was always nice to be reminded that he was a prodigy. Especially after crushing blows to his ego, which was almost a daily occurrence. "Yeah, well, tell me something I _don't _know."

The Spicer matron guffawed, settling back neatly into her seat. "Well, all the same, it's true. We just want the best for you, honey." She smiled briefly into space, before it faded from her eyes. "And you really need some friends, Jackie. If you went to an Ivy League, you'd probably meet people…" she searched for the right words, "more like you."

"I've got friends," Jack said stiffly, averting his eyes away.

"But you never bring them over," Mrs. Spicer knew she was breaching an unspoken taboo – but she so often worried about Jack. In the past couple of years they had been living in China, he either was cooped up in his basement, doing lord knows what, or – literally – flying off without a word. And sometimes there were such strange sounds from the basement….

"They've been here before," He told the half-truth easily. "Except it's always down in the basement. We… uh, just hang out down there." Shrugging the topic off, he rolled his shoulders, swinging around to the other side of the door, dismissing her motherly worries. "I've got stuff to do. Later, mom."

"Keep your fingers crossed, Jackie!" She called after him, spared the sight of his childish expression of distaste. "We're shooting for Harvard, alright?"

Jack hesitated, remembering the crumpled acceptance letter. "Alright," he called back, before bounding up the stairs, taking two per stride. No more time to spare with idle chitchat: if he was going to rule the world, he'd have to make a few stops along the way.

Namely, a certain Pajama-fetishists temple, to retrieve a few borrowed items.

After all, he had to make up the whole Harvard thing _somehow_.

-Fin-

13


End file.
